


Painting Pictures

by kate_the_reader



Series: Going Home [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Christmas, Domestic, Established Relationship, Family, Going Home, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 10:12:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5703844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames wants to show his younger self, and his London, to Arthur. He wonders why he stayed away so long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, I couldn't do this without the enthusiam and editing of chasingriver. Thank you!

In the year since Hayes, they have been busy on jobs that took them, together, and separately, to seven cities. Jobs of varying complexity, with teams of varying degrees of competence. Eames had to soothe Arthur after some of the more frustrating jobs with short side trips to indulgent resorts, where they would lie on sun loungers, sip silly drinks full of umbrellas (well, Eames likes those kinds of drinks and Arthur humored him), have massages and a lot of sex (resorts with widely spaced chalets are ideal). So when Thanksgiving looms, and Eames asks Arthur if he will consider going to Hayes again, he really doesn’t know what Arthur's reaction will be. Will he be tired of all the travel and just want to stay in one place? 

"Darling," he says one morning as they lie in bed, "I'd love to see how Ashlee has grown. Don’t you think we have been neglecting our job as uncles, just a bit?" 

Arthur turns on his side and looks at Eames. "Do you really want another Thanksgiving like last year? Really? Sleeping on the floor of my family's living room, listening to them have loud arguments, lying about our lives?" 

"Oh love," says Eames. "Is that what you remember about last year? I remember meeting your family. I remember hearing your mother tell fond stories about you. I remember looking into Ashlee's crib and seeing you fall instantly in love. I remember sitting around the table, eating your Grammy's spectacular pumpkin pie. I remember saying our thankfuls …" 

He is cut off by Arthur's mouth on his, Arthur's weight pressing him into the mattress. 

Hours later he says, "So that was a yes, darling, was it?" Arthur rolls his eyes. 

"Eames, of course I'll go to Hayes for Thanksgiving, if that's what you want. I'd go to Outer Mongolia with you, if you asked. (But don’t ask, okay?) But don't I owe you a trip to London, as well? You wanted to go there last year, and I chickened out. Don't you want that too?" 

"Well," says Eames, "London is lovely and I do want to show you my London. But I want to see the family more, right now." 

“The family? My family are the family now? Oh Eames,” he says, in the nearest Arthur usually comes to an endearment. Eames treasures this from Arthur. 

So they go to Hayes, where the family are the same, and also different, and Arthur falls even more in love with Ashlee. 

As they wash dishes together, Skippy presses Eames about going to see his own parents. Eames wonders what has been keeping him away. 

On Thanksgiving evening, they sit on the sagging porch couch, a moment of quiet. Arthur looks seriously at Eames. “Let’s go to London, Eames. Can we go for Christmas this year? Does your mother still put up mistletoe?” 

Last year’s mistletoe (plastic, alas, in Los Angeles) had stayed up until Valentine’s. Arthur had moved it round their house, surprising Eames every few days with a new location. A delightful game. 

“I'm sure she does, darling. And bakes a huge Christmas cake. Not to mention Christmas pudding. And mince pies. Of course we can go, if you want, love.” 

“I really do, Eames. I want to see your past too,” says Arthur. 

 

 

********

 

After one last quick LA-based job, the year is finally coming to a close and Eames brings out the tickets he booked weeks ago. That they’re going to London isn't a surprise, but perhaps Arthur is surprised that the tickets have been ready this long. 

“You planned this all along, Eames? So when I asked you if we could go, you already had the tickets?” 

“Well, darling, I didn't want to push, but First Class sells out fast this time of year,” says Eames. 

“Oh,” says Arthur, “Virgin, very festive. Very British. Will they have mistletoe, do you think?” 

When they settle into their seats, champagne at hand, Eames reaches into his bag and lifts his hand above Arthur’s head. “Merry Christmas, love,” he says, waggling the plastic mistletoe. It’s a good thing first class seats are so accommodating, because Arthur’s in his lap for quite a few minutes after that. Scattered applause breaks out as Arthur settles back into his own seat when the cabin attendant coughs discreetly. The tips of his ears are pink, but he gives Eames a delighted grin. 

Not even the awful, endless queue Arthur is trapped in at Heathrow with his American passport can dampen their mood. The cabbie smiles at them as Eames tells him, “Chiswick, please mate.” 

Eames can hear his accent getting more London with every interaction. Arthur seems enchanted, eyes dancing as he reaches for Eames’s hand. 

“I’ve always loved London,” he says, “but I've never been to Chiswick.” 

“Scene of my misspent youth,” Eames laughs. He pulls Arthur close as the cabbie negotiates midday traffic into the city. 

“Your parents are expecting us, aren't they Eames?” Arthur says as the cab turns into the leafy street. 

“Of course, darling. I'm not an especially attentive son, but I'm not a monster,” says Eames, kissing the hinge of Arthur’s jaw as the cab stops in front of his parents’ house. “They won't be home now, though,” he says. “We can shower and nap before they get in.” 

He lets them in and leads Arthur up the stairs to his old bedroom. His mother has evidently reclaimed it as another guest room, and he wonders where she put all his art books and his CDs. He doesn't care particularly, but Arthur frowns. 

“No remnants of childhood, what a pity!” 

“Well, you had none to show me either, in Hayes. I suppose I'll be able to find a bit in the attic if you insist,” says Eames. “Oh wait,” he says, “I painted that at art school.” He points with his chin at the small canvas on the opposite wall. It’s a close-up portrait. What was his name? Don. He hasn't thought about Don, with his intense blue eyes and floppy ginger hair, for years. Arthur steps across to study it more carefully. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Did you two have fun?” he asks. 

Eames laughs. “That obvious? Yeah, we had fun. Until he went off with the sculptor in the next studio. Big and muscly from all that stone bashing.” 

“Well, lucky me,” says Arthur. “You got muscles too and then I got you.” 

He turns back to Eames and presses him towards the bed. Eames goes easily and pulls Arthur down on top of him, slipping his hands up under his navy cashmere sweater and his shirt, which had been a crisp white when they left Silver Lake the day before but is now soft and warm. 

He thinks it's a good thing this is no longer exactly his childhood room, that this isn't the bed he slept in when he was young and unsure of himself; when he was bored and not entirely happy at school; when he was less bored and discovering the pleasure of creation and of romance, and the pain of both, at art school. He has wanted to reveal that younger self to Arthur, so there will be no secrets between them. 

Eames is happy to be here with Arthur, more than happy that Arthur is undoing the button on his jeans … He raises his hips and wriggles out of them, lets Arthur strip his T-shirt over his head. His hands go back to Arthur’s waist, tug his soft sweater up. He is careful with Arthur’s buttons, he knows this isn't the moment for wild clothes shedding. Eames likes being careful with Arthur. Taking his time, letting Arthur set the pace. This is one of those times. Arthur sits back on his heels, straddled over Eames’s hips, his shirt open, and lets Eames undo his belt, his fly. He kneels up and lets Eames push his trousers down. And then he stands up, takes his trousers off, folds them neatly, strips off his socks and comes back to the bed, still with his white shirt open on his chest. His hair has shaken loose from its careful arrangement and is hanging in his eyes. Eames thinks he looks almost young enough to have been in this same room all those years ago. 

Arthur doesn't break eye contact as he leans down and kisses Eames deeply, holding his hands pressed into the mattress at his shoulders. It’s too close to focus, all Eames can see is the depths of Arthur’s eyes, endless and mysterious. 

“Oh Eames,” Arthur sighs into his mouth. 

“Darling,” whispers Eames, “oh love …” 

They wake up hours later, the light in the room gone dim and gray. Eames looks at his watch, almost 4 o’clock. He shakes Arthur gently. “We'd better move, darling. Mum will be home pretty soon, I think.” 

His phone rings and he gropes for his jeans to answer it. Arthur stretches and blinks at him. 

“Hello, Mum,” he croaks. She laughs. 

“Did I wake you? I'm on my way now, should be home in about an hour. Have you eaten? There’s food in the fridge but don't eat too much now,” she says. 

“God, yeah, I'm starving now you mention it,” says Eames. “See you soon then.” 

“How’s Arthur? We can't wait to meet him,” his mother says. Arthur frowns slightly, then half smiles, still sleepy. 

“He’s fine. We’re pretty exhausted,” says Eames. 

“We won't keep you up late,” says his mother. “Your father has a thing at work, but he won't be too long.” 

He lets the phone slip to the floor and rolls back over to Arthur. "Let's have a shower," he says, "Mum'll be here in about an hour, and Father will be back around seven, I suppose." 

Arthur pushes his hair out of his eyes and reaches up for Eames. Eames leans down and kisses him. "You're not nervous, are you love?" 

"Well," says Arthur, "not really. No, I mean, I shouldn't be, should I?" 

"No, you shouldn't be. My Mum's a primary school teacher, my father's a publisher. You're an international dream criminal who's devastating with a Glock, you certainly shouldn't be nervous at all," he laughs. 

"Eames!" Arthur pretends to be scandalized. "You can't say stuff like that! I'm an accountant. You're a personal trainer. We like to travel." 

"Of course, darling, we’re ordinary. But you're not. And my parents are going to love you." 

Eames stands up and walks towards the door. He knows Arthur is admiring his muscles and his ink. He wiggles his bum and throws a wink over his shoulder to make Arthur giggle. 

He is leaning into the shower fiddling with the taps when Arthur comes in and wraps his arms around Eames's waist. He leans back and savors the full body contact. Eames's parents are pretty liberal, but there are limits, and they certainly won't be wandering around naked later.


	2. Chapter 2

They're sitting in the kitchen eating cheese sandwiches when his mother comes in, calling "Yoohoo!" from the front door. "Thank heavens the Tube wasn't delayed today," she says as she comes into the room and drops her bag. 

"Darling!" she says as Eames hugs her. "Hello Arthur," she says over his shoulder. "Get off me, dear, and introduce us properly," she says, pushing him playfully. 

Eames steps back and holds out his hand to Arthur. "Love, meet my Mum, Mary." He tugs Arthur closer. 

"It's lovely to meet you, Mary," says Arthur, holding out his hand to shake hers. 

"Oh dear, come here," she laughs, pulling him into a hug. 

Eames sees Arthur hesitate a tiny amount before allowing himself to be hugged. Arthur is barefoot, wearing jeans and his pale blue cashmere sweater, his hair loose and curling. Eames's mother beams at him from around Arthur's shoulder and Eames wonders why he has waited so very long to bring his lovely Arthur here. And why he has been so bad about visiting himself. He supposes he got caught up in the glamor of dreamshare. He liked living in his funny little house in Mombasa. He loves living in Silver Lake with Arthur. But he does love London. He promises himself to return more often. 

"Your father has a drinks thing at work. They invited me too. Thanks for giving me an excuse to get out of it," Mary says to Eames. 

"My pleasure!" he laughs. "We were just having a snack," he says, gesturing at their plates. 

"I need a cup of tea, myself," Mary says. "Would you like a cup, Arthur?" 

"Yes, please," says Arthur. "Eames has been converting me." He suddenly frowns. "Is it weird to call you Eames here?" he asks. 

"What? No, everyone calls me Eames. Since my parents gave me the same name as my father. After I went to prep school and they called us all by our surnames, I decided I preferred it." 

His mother smiles and gets the teapot out of the cupboard. 

She sits and drinks a cup of tea with them, then gets up and starts preparing dinner. 

"Did you show Arthur around?" she asks. "No? Well off you go then, let me just get dinner ready and then we can have a drink while we wait for George. He promised he'd only stay the barely polite amount of time." 

Eames takes Arthur's hand and leads him out into the hall. "Dining room," he says, gesturing to the room on the left. "Sitting room. Father's study. Snug," he says, opening the door at the end of the hall. 

"Snug?" says Arthur, stepping into the small room. "Snug? It certainly looks it." He pulls Eames in and pushes him down onto the squashy sofa. "Oh yes, very snug," he says, crawling into his lap and kissing him. "Very snug." 

"Yeah, I like it," says Eames. "I liked it a lot when I was a moody teen, too." 

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "I can see you in here skulking with a computer game. Or maybe not alone," he says. 

"Well, no, not always alone," Eames says, grinning. "It's a pretty comfortable sofa," he says. "You've seen upstairs. I'll show you the garden tomorrow. Not much point now." 

They go back to the kitchen. "Would you open the wine, darling?" says his mother. "I've put a fish pie in the oven. We can go and have a drink." 

In the sitting room, Eames realizes that there are several more of his paintings on the walls. 

"How long have these been up, Mum?" he asks. The room has been redecorated since he was last here. It's done in cream and blues and a large canvas he remembers doing for his degree show hangs above the mantel. It's an abstracted view from Waterloo Bridge, the buildings on either bank of the Thames suggested with slabs of varying grays and creams, the wide river in blues and greenish grays, St Paul's a purer white. 

Arthur goes over and studies it intently. He sits down next to Eames on the sofa and whispers in his ear: "The river is like your eyes." 

Eames has to swallow hard. "Oh darling," he says. 

On the opposite wall is a portrait of his mother. She is standing in the kitchen, making a salad, the lettuce and tomatoes bright splashes, her head bent. Eames thinks he caught her rather well, but he can hardly remember painting it. 

They drink wine and his mother talks about her school (Eames fibbed a little to Arthur, she's the head teacher) and asks Arthur about his job. 

"Oh you know," he says. "It's pretty routine. Spreadsheets, working out how to legally save companies paying too much tax. I liked math at school." 

"He's devastating with a spreadsheet," Eames teases, just to see Arthur blush. 

A key rattles in the front door and Eames’s father comes in bringing the evening chill. Arthur stands up. 

“Arthur! Hello!” he says. “Eames, at last, eh?” 

Eames gives his father a hug and reaches for Arthur’s hand. “Arthur, my father, George.” 

“How do you do, sir,” says Arthur. 

George looks delighted, “George, please! How was the flight?” 

“Um, fine, thanks. Better than fine, actually, since Eames surprised me with first class tickets,” says Arthur, blushing. 

George looks at Eames, eyebrow raised. Eames shrugs. “A treat,” he says. Usually, they fly business class on long hauls. Not every client just buys an airline. 

“Right, let's have a drink, shall we? Scotch?” 

Eames gestures to their wine glasses. “Maybe later, we’ve already started.” 

“Mmm, scotch for me, I think. God, Jamie Davis was being such a bore, I almost couldn't get away,” he says. “Arthur, publishing is not as glamorous as it may seem.” 

“Neither is accounting, sir … Um, George,” says Arthur. 

Eames giggles. He loves Arthur’s dry humor and he’s glad he’s relaxed enough to deploy it here. 

“That’s why I'm a personal trainer,” he says. 

His father raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything. 

Mary had stepped out when her husband came in and now she calls from the kitchen, “Darling, come set the table for me.” 

“Which one does she mean?” says Eames. “I'll go.” 

He’s right, when he comes into the kitchen, his mother says, “Don’t let’s let Father bore poor Arthur to death.” 

“Oh, he’ll be fine. He’s dealt with worse at work, I'm sure.” 

He thinks over some of their jobs this year. Leaving aside the debacle in Minsk, there’d been that awfully tedious job in Minneapolis where one shoe company executive wanted the details of a rival’s fall line. That had turned out far less interesting than it sounded, even to Arthur. 

Mary laughs. “I have to say, he doesn't look the accountancy type.” 

“Ah, but you should see him in a suit,” says Eames. He can't help the private smile he feels lifting his mouth. 

“I'm sure,” says his mother. “Right, table. We’ll eat in here. The cutlery’s still in the same drawer.” 

Eames hasn't been home in three and a half years, but it’s as if he never left. He wonders again why he has stayed away so long. It’s all too easy to get caught up in the world he and Arthur have chosen, to forget the ordinary world is still there. 

He sets the table quickly and goes back to the sitting room. 

“… He’ll have to pay back that huge advance?” Arthur is saying. 

“If he doesn't deliver it rather soon, I'd say so,” says George. 

“Darling?” asks Eames. 

“Vikram Seth is behind with his follow-up to _A Suitable Boy_ ,” says Arthur, giving Eames a private smile. That huge tome had been their bedtime reading for months. Arthur had lain with his head on Eames’s shoulder as Eames read the sprawling tale, running his free hand through Arthur’s hair, the book propped on his bent legs. 

“Hmmm, what a pity, eh?” says Eames. 

“Damn shame,” says his father. “We were looking forward to it. Paid him a thumping advance, now it seems he’s blocked. Hope he hasn't spent it all already.” 

Mary comes into the room. “Supper’s ready, bring your wine,” she says. 

The fish pie is such English comfort food, Eames is straight back in childhood. 

“You used to make this in winter when I came in freezing from rugby,” he says. 

“It’s delicious,” says Arthur. “I wonder if we could get good enough fish in LA to make it?” 

“Darling,” says Eames, “we should definitely try.” 

“And tell me more about the rugby, Eames,” teases Arthur. “Were you the star of the team?” 

“He was a pretty nippy wing,” says George. “Bit small for the scrum, but fast. Plenty of tries.” 

“I'll show you some pictures later, if you’d like,” says Mary. Arthur beams, full dimples. 

“I’d love that,” he says, shooting a terribly fond look at Eames. 

It doesn’t escape George and Mary. They share a fond look of their own. 

Mary brings an apple and rhubarb crumble to the table next, and Eames can't resist leaning over and giving her a kiss. She’s remembered and made his favorite supper, with no fuss or fanfare. 

When they’ve finished (Eames has a second helping), Arthur offers to help with the dishes, stifling a yawn and sort of swaying on his feet as he does so. Mary laughs. 

“No, no,” she says. “It just goes in the dishwasher. You're so exhausted you’d only drop a plate on your foot. Off you two go.” 

Eames is glad to take Arthur’s hand and lead him to the stairs. 

“Thank you for such a delicious supper, Mary,” says Arthur. “It was lovely to meet you both.” 

“Night, boys,” says George. 

Arthur leans against Eames as they climb the stairs. Eames steers him into the bathroom and then into the bedroom. Arthur pulls off his jeans and sweater and flops into the bed. 

“Your parents are lovely, Eames,” he mumbles, dropping into sleep. 

Eames is tired too, but he lies and gazes at Arthur for a few minutes.


	3. Chapter 3

Eames wakes before Arthur and once again just looks at him sleep, tousled and perfect. But then he can't wait and kisses him awake, just to see him blink and dimple and stretch. 

“Darling, what do you want to do today?” he asks. 

“Mmmmmm, show me your haunts?” 

“The dodgy alleys where I sneaked fags instead of going to piano lessons? The tree I fell out of because I was snogging Harry Peters?” Eames teases. 

“Eames,” laughs Arthur, punching his shoulder with a weak, sleepy fist, “Did you have the gayest adolescence in London?” 

“Well, first of all,” says Eames, “You forget that fag means something else here than it does in America, and second … yes, I was pretty lucky.” 

But Arthur’s eyes are slipping shut again, so leaving him to sleep a little longer, Eames pulls on jeans and a sweatshirt and goes down to the kitchen. His mother is there, rolling out pastry. 

“There’s tea in the pot. Would you rather have coffee, though?” she says. 

“I'm not an American, Mum, I just live there,” he says, fetching a mug. 

“Yes,” says Mary, “For quite a long time, now.” 

“I know, Mum. I'm sorry. I don't know why I stayed away so long. It was stupid,” says Eames. 

“Well, you came back,” says Mary, “Thank you for bringing Arthur. He’s lovely.” 

“He’s brilliant, isn't he?” says Eames. 

Arthur walks into the kitchen. He is dressed in another soft sweater, this one moss green, his hair is combed to his holiday standard and he asks, “What’s brilliant?” 

“You are, darling,” says Eames. “Look, my Mum’s making mince pies.” 

“Oh, Eames told me all about mince pies! I was a bit confused at first,” he says. “May I help?” 

Eames can't believe his luck, his gorgeous Arthur is about to get flour on his lovely sweater. He gets up to make Arthur coffee; Eames may be converting him to proper tea, but he’s still American. 

So Eames sits at the kitchen table, drinking tea, eating toast with Marmite and telling his mother snippets about their trips, repackaged as holidays, while Arthur, frowning in concentration, cuts out pastry shapes, dollops in fruit mince and brushes pie lids with egg. Arthur adds extra details, when he has attention to spare from his delicate task. (Barcelona had been wonderful, but Minsk had been a mistake. “The food’s pretty bad, I don’t know what we were thinking,” he laughs. That job had required one of the exotic resorts. It wasn't just the food that was bad on that one, the whole job had been a shambles.) 

They’re all laughing about it when George comes in. 

“Did you get it sorted out?” asks Mary. “Your father had to go and untangle a post-party mix-up,” she says. 

“More than a mix-up! Honestly, I wish Jamie could keep his outdated opinions to himself instead of insulting the interns,” says George. “I mean, who even thinks the word ‘poof’ these days." 

"Well," says Mary. "Shall we take these two out to lunch?" 

"Yes!" says George. "Arthur, we've been wanting to try Giorgio's new place, would you and Eames like that?" 

"Locatelli," Mary adds. 

"That sounds lovely," says Arthur. "We should change though." 

"We all should. Eames, you most of all," says Mary. 

Arthur takes his hand. "I know what I want you to wear," he says, eyes running down Eames's body. It's obvious he's feeling pretty much at home by now. 

Eames is delighted when Arthur takes out his black blazer. He chooses a white shirt with a subtle pale blue stripe and hands them to Eames, pulling out a pair of very well cut dark jeans. 

"Mmm," he says. "Leave two, no three, buttons open." His eyes dance wickedly. Eames knows Arthur loves his ink. He is a bit surprised that he wants Eames to show it off to a packed of-the-moment restaurant and to Eames's parents. Arthur will never stop surprising him. 

Arthur chooses very skinny black trousers, a white shirt and a charcoal waistcoat. He hesitates before adding a tie in a purple paisley, smirking over his shoulder at Eames. His jacket matches the waistcoat. Just by choosing different trousers, Arthur has turned a three-piece suit into a more casual outfit. Eames still can't work out where Arthur can have learned this skill. 

Arthur pulls Eames in for a kiss, surprisingly heated. Then he fixes his hair and strides to the door, leaving Eames a little breathless. 

As he starts down the stairs, Eames catches his mother's eye as she stands by the door. She smiles a wide, fond smile. Eames follows Arthur down the stairs. He's not _only_ admiring his arse. 

"Well, the hostess won't notice us, will she, dear?" Mary says to George. She's wearing a chic dark outfit. 

The day is pleasant, not too cold, and they walk to the restaurant, which is in a tree-lined side street. Eames points out the road to his prep school, and the park where he'd played kickabout football. 

Arthur takes his hand. "Thank you for bringing me here, Eames," he says. 

"Thank you for insisting, love," Eames says. 

The restaurant is full of smart people, the food is very good and they all drink perhaps a little too much. George has some funny stories about his authors, without being indiscreet, and Arthur laughs and laughs, dimples coming out and staying on display. Mary catches Eames's eye and smiles again. 

After lunch, Mary says she has a little last-minute Christmas shopping to do. George pretends to sigh and says, "Oh well, you two don't have to suffer needlessly. Eames, show Arthur some of your haunts." 

Eames laughs and takes Arthur's hand as they walk down the street near the green. It's getting late on a winter afternoon, this won't be a long stroll. In the little slice of park off the high street he points out the snogging tree, and glancing round, pulls Arthur in under its branches, presses him up against the trunk. It reminds him of another tree all the way across the world, and he thinks of the distance they've covered over the course of another year together. 

By the time they get back to his parents' house, the air is scented with the mince pies Arthur made this morning and Mary baked after she got in. 

"Oh, these are delicious!" says Arthur as they sit around the kitchen table with cups of Earl Grey. Eames leans against him and puts his hand on Arthur's thigh. Arthur gives him a fond, private smile. Not so private that Mary doesn't catch it.


	4. Chapter 4

On Sunday morning, Eames waits till he hears the front door close and his parents' car pull into the street. They have a lunch date in the country. 

He gets up and pads naked to the bathroom for a pee, brushes his teeth. 

Back in the bedroom, he kisses Arthur awake. Arthur stretches like a cat and smiles up at Eames. And then he flips them and takes over. Eames loves this. When the take-charge Arthur he sees at work is in their bed. Arthur straddles his hips, pins his hands above his head and kisses Eames from his eyelids to his navel. He leaves Eames's hands with a raised eyebrow. Eames knows he must keep them where Arthur has placed them as Arthur works his way lower. And soon he is panting and writhing. But still Arthur holds off. 

Eames sort of knows what's coming next. Arthur gets off the bed and walks to the bathroom, throwing a sultry glance at Eames from the doorway, and Eames can't help it, he's still giggling by the time Arthur is back. Arthur speeds things up after that. Eames has begged enough. 

It's early afternoon when Eames wakes for the second time. Arthur is half on top of him. A beam of sunshine is just catching the top of the window. Eames's stomach rumbles and he raises his hips a bit to jostle Arthur gently awake. 

"Darling, aren't you famished? I'm dying here, suddenly," he says to the back of Arthur's head, dropping a kiss behind his ear. 

"Mmmm, yeah, could eat," mumbles Arthur, his mouth buzzing against Eames's shoulder. 

"Ok, let's see what we can find, shall we?" he says. 

"Mince pies?" asks Arthur. "Mince pies, please." 

"You know that's all just sugar, don't you?" says Eames. 

"Mmmm, yum," says Arthur. 

Eames loves silly Arthur almost as much as take-charge Arthur. There's no Arthur Eames doesn't adore, even if shopping-for-clothes Arthur can try his patience sometimes. 

Arthur suddenly springs up and tosses Eames a pair of sweatpants. 

He pulls on jeans and the mossy-green sweater and goes bounding down the stairs. Eames drags on the sweatpants and a T-shirt and follows. In the kitchen, Arthur has the kettle on and the cake tin out. Eames roots in the fridge, and is delighted to find the Stilton his mother has got in for Christmas. It's a bit early, but surely she won't mind too much? He finds some Water Biscuits and settles down for a deliciously English snack. Arthur wrinkles his nose. 

"I didn't know you English did stinky cheese," he says. 

"Try some, darling," says Eames. 

"Not when I can eat mince pies, Eames," says Arthur. "Why have you been keeping these a secret from me?" 

They take their second mugs of tea into the Snug, and Arthur collapses contentedly against Eames on the deep sofa. Eames finds the television remote and looks for a football match. He finds Liverpool playing Manchester City and mutes the sound. He sips his tea and drowses in the warmth of Arthur along his side, the players flickering back and forth on the screen. He's not really watching. 

Arthur says, "Did you used to go to football matches?" 

"Sometimes," says Eames. "Chelsea. Not that often. Not really after I went to art school." 

"Why not?" asks Arthur. "Too many pretty boys there?" 

"Too much paint," says Eames. "I just discovered that I really loved it. Not the classes so much. I liked art history well enough, but I really loved painting." 

"Why did you stop then?" says Arthur. "Don't you miss it?" 

"Well, I did love it, but then … I don't know, it was too comfortable. I needed a challenge. I was good at creating images, and when I met Miles after that lecture, he must have seen something. He suggested I might be good at creating a different kind of image. And that was that." 

Arthur twists to look at him. "But you could do both. If you want." 

"Mmmm, darling," says Eames. 

A key rattles in the front door and Mary calls, “Yoohoo!” 

George says, “Don’t disturb them, Mary.” 

Arthur straightens, and Eames gets up and steps into the hall. 

“There you are, darling!” says Mary, “We thought we'd go to the Christmas tree market on the green this evening.” 

“Sounds brilliant, Arthur will love it, I'm sure,” says Eames. He knows what else is sold at Christmas tree markets. 

The market is crowded with families, little kids running around begging for the biggest trees while dads mentally calculate whether the specimens can fit on their cars and into their sitting rooms. There’s mulled wine on sale, carolers singing and fairy lights everywhere. It's a complete cliché, and Arthur is enchanted. 

“Eames,” he says, eyes dancing. 

Eames buys him a mulled wine and grabs his hand as his parents decide on a tree. He spied it as they entered and he leads Arthur to the booth selling mistletoe. 

“We’ll take two, no, three bunches,” he tells the woman. 

She smiles a huge smile at him as Arthur kisses his cheek. Eames can feel himself blushing, but he can’t resist. He picks up a tiny sprig and tucks it in the buttonhole of Arthur’s coat. Arthur raises an eyebrow, and tugs him behind a Christmas tree. He wraps his arms round Eames and snogs him silly. 

Then, combing his fingers through Eames's hair to repair some of the damage, he leads him back out and over to where Mary and George are buying a moderately large, well-shaped spruce, bags of holly in hand. 

Mary laughs when she sees what Eames is carrying. “Got enough, I hope,” she says. 

“Think so,” says Eames. Arthur squeezes his hand


	5. Chapter 5

Eames and Arthur wrestle the tree off the car and into the sitting room while George gets the stand and a large box from the cupboard under the stairs. 

Mary comes in with a tea tray. "I could have sworn we made more mince pies, but there aren't many left," she says. 

Arthur blushes and Eames gives him a poke in the side. 

"I ate some for … lunch, I guess?" Arthur says. "I've never had mince pies before," he adds. 

"Mystery explained," says Mary. "I'll make more tomorrow." 

They set the tree up by the fireplace and Eames opens the box. Inside are decorations he remembers from his childhood. Bells, baubles in gaudy colors, tiny Father Christmases and little teddies, silver tinsel, and a tangled string of fairy lights. They have kept all these old, precious ornaments that he hasn't even thought of for decades. He swallows the lump in his throat. At the bottom is a smaller box. He opens it and is still for a moment. Arthur glances over. Inside is an angel Eames made in art class at prep school. He must have been ten. The angel's wings are enormous, dwarfing its body. Its face is delicately painted. It is not a female face. 

"That's gorgeous!" says Arthur. 

"Eames made that for us when he was just a little boy," says Mary. "We knew he was good at art, but when he brought that home, we saw he wasn't just good." 

They decorate the tree, Eames helping his father to untangle the lights. Amazingly, all the bulbs are in working order, so they drape them and plug them in. 

Mary hands Eames the angel and he climbs on a footstool to place it on top, balancing with a hand on Arthur's shoulder. 

"Darling, it's lovely," says Mary. "Now, let's do some holly and ivy. And you have something you want to hang up as well, I suppose?" 

Arthur blushes. Eames finds red ribbon in the box, ties a bunch of mistletoe and hangs it from the ceiling light. He pulls Arthur close and kisses him softly, an in-front-of-the-parents kiss. 

Arthur raises an eyebrow as Eames puts the bag by the door. 

In the bathroom later, Eames finds a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the shower head. There's another above their bed and one above the bedroom door. Arthur is sitting on the bed grinning wickedly. 

"Darling, you know you don’t need mistletoe to get me to kiss you here, don't you?" Eames teases. 

"Oh, I know, Mr Eames," says Arthur. "You don't know where all the other mistletoe is, though, do you?" 

Eames pushes Arthur down and kisses him. A there-are-no-parents-here kiss.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Eames wakes late. The day is gloomy and the light in the room is still dim. Arthur isn't in bed. In the kitchen, his mother is rolling out more pastry and keeping an eye on a pot of soup. His father is reading the _Guardian_ at the table. 

"Have you seen Arthur?" asks Eames. 

"He went out to get something," says Mary. "I told him which bus to get and lent him an Oyster card." 

"Why didn't he wait for me?" says Eames. 

"I imagine you can guess why, darling," says Mary. 

Eames makes tea and sits yawning at the table. He pages idly through the section of the paper his father isn't busy with. 

"You know who I saw the other day?" says his mother. "Harry Peters. Remember him?" 

"Yeah, I remember him," says Eames. "What's he doing these days?" 

"Working in the city, he said. He was with a rather dishy bloke," says Mary. 

"Mmmm, Harry Peters," says Eames. "I bet." 

When he's finished his tea, Eames gets up to see what he can do to help. 

"I'm going to ice the Christmas cake," says Mary. "Or do you want to do it?" 

"Well, I'll help," says Eames. "Icing is not one of my many skills." 

"But artistry is," says Mary. 

Eames is fashioning a group of snowpeople from fondant when the front door opens and they hear Arthur climbing the stairs. After a pause he comes into the kitchen flushed from the chill, his hair a little damp and curling. 

"What have I missed?" he says. 

"Darling! You can help me make these snowpeople," says Eames. 

He has tiny bits of fondant colored orange and is making carrot noses. Arthur glances up at the light fitting above the table, where Eames has not noticed a bunch of mistletoe, and kisses Eames, his nose still chilly. 

There are four snowpeople. One has a navy scarf, another a red one. Eames has a red scarf, Arthur a navy one. Their eyes are currants and Eames has been into the garden to find suitable twigs for arms. He hasn't had this much fun in a kitchen in a very long while. 

The afternoon turns rainy and any ideas of going out are shelved. Mary shoos them from the kitchen and they end up in the Snug. There's mistletoe there as well, hanging from a picture above the sofa. Eames laughs and pulls Arthur down into his lap. 

George clears his throat outside the door and Arthur slips onto the cushions, pushing his hair out of his eyes. Eames rubs his thumb along Arthur's jaw, which is rather pink from Eames's stubble. 

George comes in and says, "Want to join me for the bizarre Christmas ritual of watching English redcoats lose a battle against a superior Zulu army?" 

Eames has forgotten this weird English fact, that the film _Zulu_ is always on TV at Christmas. 

"Sure," he laughs. "Arthur, this is going to seem very odd." 

He's not wrong. Arthur is at first baffled by why this ancient war movie is a Christmas tradition. But then they are all engrossed in the heroics of a young Michael Caine, dashing in his red uniform. 

When the movie is over, George leaves them in the Snug and Eames can't resist the drowsy Arthur slumped at his side. As they go up to bed, Arthur points out more sprigs of mistletoe he has placed on picture frames all the way up the stairs. It takes them quite a while to get to the landing.


	7. Chapter 7

Christmas morning is bright and Eames wakes before Arthur. He gets his wrapped parcels from his suitcase and slips down the stairs to place them under the tree. One of them is very small. 

He's in the kitchen drinking tea while his mother busies herself with a goose when Arthur comes in wearing yet another cashmere sweater. This one is a deep wine red and he has a navy and white polka-dot shirt underneath. His eyes are dancing and he drops a kiss on Eames's hair. Eames slips his arm around Arthur's waist and Arthur tips his hip against Eames's shoulder. Eames feels a tiny pang that they can be so themselves here, when it’s not really possible with Arthur’s family, lovely as Skippy and Tabitha have been. They’ll just have to keep going back to Hayes, he thinks. 

Mary gives them a fond glance, but she hands Eames an apron and a potato peeler and sets him to work. 

“Merry Christmas," she says "You can do the carrots after you’ve had coffee, Arthur.” 

Arthur beams at her. 

The morning passes in a pleasant rush, with Christmas carols on the radio and all of them busy preparing the meal. George sets the table in the dining room and as soon as noon strikes, pours them all a glass of champagne. 

“Here’s to you boys!” he says. “We're so very glad to have you both here. At last.” 

Eames blushes and grins. “I'm sorry,” he says, “I'm an idiot. We won't stay away so long again.” 

“No,” says Arthur. “Thank you for making me feel so at home.” 

“Oh, come here,” say Mary, sounding a little damp. She bats at Eames with her apron. “You’d better mean it,” she says. 

They sit at the kitchen table, eating nuts and drinking champagne as they wait for the goose to finish roasting. 

“You were wrong when you threatened me with a second turkey,” says Arthur. 

“That was last year, darling!” says Eames. “How did you remember that?” Arthur just smiles at him, 

“You should come to LA,” says Arthur, glancing at Eames. “You’d love it, I think.” 

"Yes, you would," says Eames. "We should invite Skippy and Tabitha as well, love," he says. 

He knows his parents are more accepting, but he doesn’t want there to be two standards for their two families. And away from Hayes and Jim-Bob, Arthur's Mom and Grammy will be fine, he thinks. 

"Your parents, Arthur?" asks George. 

"My Mom and Grammy," says Arthur. "My father's … um … not around." 

"We'd love to meet them," says Mary. 

The goose is resting on the counter, there are oysters on a bed of ice, the Christmas dinner is beginning. 

The dining room is a dazzle of candles in the dimming afternoon light. George opens another bottle of champagne. Arthur looks at Eames, candle flames dancing in his eyes. “I love everything about this Christmas, Eames. Everything,” he says, with emphasis. 

They’re sitting opposite each other. Eames reaches across and takes Arthur’s hand. “So do I, my love,” he says. 

Arthur blinks and swallows and doesn't break eye contact. 

But the moment must be put on hold as they slurp oysters and drink more champagne. 

Mary gets up and goes through to the kitchen, beckoning George to help. 

“It’s not just the lights and the food and the … sparkle,” says Arthur. 

“I know, darling. I know. I feel it too,” says Eames. He gets up, rounds the table and drops a kiss on Arthur’s head, behind his ear, on his chin. He crouches down and buries his face in Arthur’s hip. Breathes him in. 

“Oh Eames,” says Arthur. 

Eames gets up when he hears his parents at the door, brushing at his eyes with a knuckle. 

“Mum, this all looks amazing!” he says, as Mary and George carry in the goose, and platters of crisp golden potatoes, vegetables, stuffing. 

“Won’t you go and fetch the rest?” his mother says. 

When Eames comes back in with the gravy boat, his parents and Arthur are all smiling so wide, he knows he’s missed something. 

The goose is delicious, crisp and rich. Mary has used the goose fat to roast the potatoes and Eames sighs just a bit when he bites into the first one. Arthur quirks an eyebrow at him and laughs. 

“Alright there, Mr Eames?” he says. 

“Mmmmm,” is all Eames can manage. 

“Well,” says Mary when Eames has had seconds of everything and is surreptitiously easing his belt buckle, “Shall we open presents before Christmas pudding?” 

“Good idea,” says George. “I couldn't even eat a wafer-thin mint at this stage.” 

He catches Eames’s eye and they burst out laughing. Arthur looks puzzled. “Monty Python, darling. You don't want to know,” says Eames when he catches his breath. 

In the sitting room, Arthur pauses under the mistletoe and kisses Eames, then settles close to him on the sofa. There’s a heap of wrapped parcels under the tree. The fairy lights are twinkling in multicolors, the light outside is dim and blue. 

“Right,” says George, “Am I Father Christmas? Here’s one for you, darling,” he says to Mary. “And one for Arthur.” 

The gift is from George and Mary. It’s a copy of Vikram Seth’s _The Golden Gate_. Arthur turns it over, reads the blurb and smiles in delight. “Bedtime story,” he says to Eames. “Thank you so much!” he says to George and Mary. “This has been out of print for years … How did you …?” 

“We’re his publishers, if you recall,” says George, looking terribly pleased with himself. He grins at Eames. 

Mary is holding up the Hermes scarf she has unwrapped. “Arthur?” she says. 

“I hope I got the color right,” says Arthur, “What do you think, Eames?” 

Eames doesn't know how Arthur did it, how he deduced what colors would bring out his mother’s eyes, so like his own. Clever Arthur, is there anything he doesn't know about clothes? 

At last, after he has opened a huge book of David Hockney’s latest artistic experiments, from his parents, several T-shirts that he notices are going to fit him rather well, and a bottle of his favorite cologne, only obtainable in that one tiny shop in Barcelona, after Arthur has sighed over the very gorgeous shirts from the Florence tailor, and the special hair pomade from Paris, there are only two parcels left under the tree. One very big, flat, with a squarish bulge, one very small. 

“Ready for pudding now?” asks Mary. “Come and help me, George, won't you? You can light it.” 

They leave the room, and Arthur gets up, fetches the large parcel and hands it to Eames, kissing him softly. Eames is pretty sure that parcel didn't come from LA. 

He settles it on his lap, reads the card. “You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling,” it says. Eames bites his lip. He tears open the paper, unable to wait. Inside are two canvases and a box of oil paints with several brushes. 

“Oh, my love. Oh Arthur, darling,” he says. 

“I didn't know how much it meant to you, till the other day,” says Arthur. “You are so much more than dreamshare. Will you share your dreams with me, Eames?” 

Eames turns his face into Arthur’s neck and just breathes, trying to gain control of his voice to answer. “I will share it all with you,” he finally manages. 

He rubs his hand over his face. Gets up and fetches the last, tiny parcel. 

“I will share it all with you,” he says. “If you’ll share it with me?” he asks, placing the little box in Arthur's hand. “Darling, it’s not a question, it’s a promise,” he says, as Arthur reads the card, a smile bringing out his dimples in full glory, because Eames has written the same as Arthur had. Of course. 

Arthur unties the ribbon, unpeels the paper, reveals the little pale blue box. 

Inside are a set of cuff links that Eames commissioned months ago, the infinity symbol in platinum. 

“It’s a promise. When the government lets me ask the question, I will,” says Eames. 

“Oh Eames, when you do, you know what my answer will be,” Arthur says seriously. 

Then he climbs into Eames’s lap and takes his face in his hands and drops kisses all over, breathing, “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.” 

They are still entangled when Mary and George come in, George carrying the flaming Christmas pudding. Eames looks up at them and beams. Arthur smiles shyly and slips onto the sofa, running a hand through his messy hair. 

After Christmas pudding — Arthur gasps with delight — Arthur gets up and says, “I'm going to go phone home, they’ll be up by now.” 

Mary says, “Sorry we interrupted, darling.” 

“What’s this?” asks George, gesturing to the canvases. 

“It’s how well he knows me now,” says Eames. His voice catches a bit. “I'm so glad I brought him here,” he says. 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two won't leave me alone, so there will be more pieces of their story to come.


End file.
